Winter
by kgg77
Summary: BB, having just experienced the tragic death of his parents, doesn't like to speak to anyone but his book. But what happens when a certain dark eyed girl, under similar circumstances, tries to befriend him? girl A. BBxA, M for later chapters.


December 13, 1999

I woke up before dawn again and watched the sun rise above the trees. I usually sit on the roof and watch because being in this house makes me feel like I'm suffocating.

On the roof I can see lots of things: the shops across the street, the pond next to the house, all the trees, the sunrise. I love watching the sunrise during the winter. Well technically winter doesn't start until December 21st, but to me December=winter. So who cares. The sunrises are probably one of the most beautiful sights I've laid my eyes on. The black sky becomes blue and slowly lightens in shade until the sun is visible at the horizon, the lower part of the sky a pale yellow. I look forward to it every day.

There's not much else I look forward to, I don't know why I have to live here. I'm the only kid living here, besides this girl named A. She doesn't even speak so I don't count her as a human. She's basically a lump of flesh and bones who does every thing she is told. She's really smart too. Which is weird because you'd think someone that smart would want to share their knowledge with others, but I guess not. She actually kind of creeps me out. Her skin is maybe olive and her eyes are this strange dark color, onyx I believe it's called. Basically you can't tell the difference between her pupil and iris. Instead of speaking she just _stares_ at you with those black holes she calls eyes. I do the same thing so I probably sound like a hypocrite writing this, but I don't care. I haven't seen many people like her. That also sounds hypocritical, because how many people have you seen like me? Red eyes aren't a very common occurrence.

No one is ever going to read this except me, so I guess its safe to write about this. My eyes are strange. They're red. I see things. I know when everyone is going to die. Pleasant, yeah? That's why I don't look forward to anything, because everything around me leads to death. I try to ignore them but I can't. Death dates are constantly in my face. It gives me a headache. Nothing is better than watching everyone around you wither away and being unable to help them. (That was sarcasm). I've already experienced that with my parents, maybe that's why I'm in this place.

Its some sort of special orphanage, but they won't tell me what kind of special. I'm assuming its for crazy people, considering A communicates through stares and my eyes are red. And maybe because I see a psychiatrist. I could've sworn only insane people talk to psychiatrists. I'm far from insane. He's the one who told me to start this journal, he said it'd give me "someone to talk to since I don't seem to like talking to anyone else". Those were his exact words. I tend to memorize a lot of things he says, even though I pretend I'm ignoring him during every appointment. "Social interaction is important in maintaining mental stability" is another thing he said and I think that's complete bullshit. I don't need anyone to _maimtain mental stability._ I like being by myself. Talking to a notebook isn't going to make me better anyways, not that there's anything wrong. I'm fine.

December 16, 1999

I've been here for three days and I'm trying to imagine an eternity living here. I can't. Its dark, its quiet, both things I like, but it just doesn't feel like home. I miss my room. I have to walk up two flights of stairs to get to my room here. Its cold, theres a draft constantly coming through the window, the furniture is nice. A little too nice. I lay in my bed and feel out of place; its so plushy and the linens feel like butter against my skin. Getting to my bed after dinner is a hike. Dinner here is nice too, but I'm never hungry. The two old guys, Whammy and Roger, seem worried when they notice me not eating, so try to appease them by forcing down a strawberry jam sandwich. Might as well eat something I like. A eats her food. She still hasn't spoken to me yet, not that I want her to. I just wish she'd stop staring at me like that.

December 17, 1999

The doctor asked to read my book today and I nearly ripped his hand off. No one is ever going to read this. He told me to make sure I tell the book about myself, and I realized I hadn't.

My name is B. BB. Beyond Birthday. Whichever you prefer. I'm fifteen years old and I watched my parents die. They were in the front seats. I'm six feet tall, and I think that's a pretty good height. My eyes are red and my hair is black, its always messy but that's okay. I'm from some shitty town west of London; no one liked me there. I don't like me either. When I look in the mirror I can't see my death date. It really gets on my nerves. What use is being able to see times of death when you cant even see your own? It pisses me off so much I try not to look in the mirror, ever. I tend to scare people away. They see my eyes and instantly look away and avoid me. That's why A confuses me so much. How can she stare at me and not look away? It's interesting. She's interesting.


End file.
